Beyond Repair
by MitziMartyn
Summary: The story of how Drossel became what he is. Rated M for gore.


**Beyond Repair**

I hate this body, this fragile shell, this poorly made container for pain.

A nurse comes, interested in my gradual decay rather than repulsed by it. I didn't ask her to come, but she still does. It hurts to look at her. The stellar glimmer of her silver hair and white glow of her skin stabs my eyes full of poison that took control over my whole being. The nurse gives me some medicine and leaves again. The liquid is bitter, bitter, almost as bitter as me.

The death is patient, waiting. I can't see it. Not yet.

It was hiding in the paints I used to make puppets for the Mandalay family. Green. Red. Blue. Yellow. They had drained me of colour months ago and now they're devouring the last sparkles of life in my veins. But you get accustomed to it all. The weakness, the dizziness, even the stench of rotting skin. I hardly notice it.

Toy trains, teddy bears, puppets, wooden animals and dolls sit on the shelves lining my bedroom, looking down at me. The dolls with their perfect pouty painted lips mock my helplessness as I'm laying there in my own filth and fallen out flocks of hair, waiting for release. They know I have nobody else in this world.

My eyelids grow heavy from that drug the nurse gave me, but the dose was too small and sleep doesn't come. All I can do breathe in the stale, dusty air. Cold, dark bedroom – the only witness of my sluggish, pointless end.

I roll out of the bed, landing painfully on my elbows and knees, stand up and stagger towards the window. The neighbours' children are playing Oranges and Lemons in the snow. Snow is never white for long in London, but they don't seem to mind.

The glass gets foggy when I press my face against it, but I can still hear them laughing and singing, commited to their innocent game. They have no need for toys.

 _London Bridge is falling_ _down,_

 _Falling down,_

 _falling down_

 _London Bridge is falling down..._

I grip the chair by the window to keep myself on my feet, weakened by sickness, cold and hunger.

… _my fair lady._

My mind is clear, almost unnaturally so. A shaky step towards the shelf with dolls. I drag one of them down into my numb hands, taking a proper look at her once again. Yes. That will do. Her petite body hits the floor and her pretty porcelain face cracks. I can fix her when I've fixed myself.

It hurts to move, to breathe, to think, but this is the only chance left.

I reel to my workroom, to the scratched table that saw me do so many affordable miracles. It's stained with the same paint that has been killing me for so long, but the wood can't be harmed so easily. Wood, porcelain, glass, iron, silk. In the end my toys are more durable than me.

A needle. A bright orange thread. A ball of orange silk. It's not a popular colour, but I like it. The colour of sunset, when the light bleeds all over London. The point pierces the skin above my forehead easily and the pain is but a minor inconvenience. Only a few droplets of blood smear my fingers as I stitch the silk to my head to replace the fallen hair.

 _Build it up with Chinese silk,_

 _Chinese silk,_

 _Chinese silk,_

 _Build it up with Chinese silk,_

 _my fair lady._

Why didn't I think of it sooner?

 _It will be fine, it will be good, it will be grand,_ my dolls whisper. I will be like them, full beautiful, flawless. No more pain. I drop the needle. This is just the beginning.

The brushes are stiff with dried paint, but a damp piece of cloth can remedy this. First the base. White. It sticks to my skin as if it was supposed to be there all along. A glance to the old mirror above my head. Yes. A layer after layer. The result must be as smooth as porcelain. Art saves, doesn't it? Violet. Blue. Pink. The shadows sleeplessness carved around my eyes are hidden. A momentary inspiration adds an ink stain, a fleur-de-lis beneath my eye. The thick liquid drips down my lips, but it can't harm me anymore.

 _Build it up with ink and paint,_

 _Ink and paint_

 _Ink and paint_

 _Build it up with ink and paint,_

 _my fair lady._

My hands won't stop shaking as I remove my shirt and draw a thick black line running down my torso. The knife is dull, covered in rust, but it I need to put inside the stuffing.

I'm going to build it up with straw and wool.

It hurts, yet I mustn't falter. I reach into my chest. Warm, soggy flesh embraces my ice cold hand and I let out a howl carrying the entirety of my drawn-out suffering. I collapse to the floor, unable to finish my masterpiece.

The nurse enters, a serene smile gracing her pure features.

 _Build me up with pain and fear,_

 _Pain and fear,_

 _Pain and fear,_

 _Build me up with pain and fear,_

 _my_

 _fair-_

 _._


End file.
